


"Tony, what do you think you're doing?"

by CucumbersInGold



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Family Fluff, M/M, birthday breakfast gone awry, fight me, stephen loves his husband, they both love their son, tony loves his husband
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-20 12:08:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15533904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CucumbersInGold/pseuds/CucumbersInGold
Summary: Stephen Strange rarely wakes up alone anymore.





	"Tony, what do you think you're doing?"

**Author's Note:**

> for an anon on tumblr!!
> 
> [here's my tumblr](https://klimt-and-cumberbatch.tumblr.com), check me out!!!

It wasn't often that Stephen Strange woke up alone. At least, not now. Years ago, yes, when he’d been an egomaniac neurosurgeon racing to the top of his field at break-neck speeds, regardless of who he stepped on or who he hurt on his way. He was a well-oiled machine, built for success, brought out of obscurity in the Nebraskan plains to the height of luxury. He’d had watches for every day of the week and then some, tens of thousands of dollars worth of suits, hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of cars, a high-rise apartment in one of the most expensive cities on earth, and skincare products that would make any Vogue cover model blush.

He’d had it all.

But he’d been alone.

Then his accident. Then his recovery. Then his discovery of a new sense of purpose - a Master of the Mystic Arts, the protector of the Eye of Agamotto, the Time Stone. He’d fought his way through the impossible, walked across dimensions like he was running to the corner store for a cup of coffee, floated aimlessly in galaxies so beautiful they brought tears to his eyes. He’d met with nearly every race imaginable, shook hands with intergalactic diplomats, brought the raw energy of the stars into his body and poured it out of his hands. He’d tasted the cosmos on his tongue, and been left wanting more.

And he’d been alone for most of it.

But he wasn’t any longer.

Now, he was with Tony Stark, eccentric billionaire extraordinaire, and Iron Man occasionally, when the universe needed saving. They’d met on a bit of a fluke - that fluke being a large purple, evil, genocidal maniac known as Thanos. One of Tony’s old friends had fallen through Stephen’s roof, largely ruining a very expensive, very old grand staircase (he and Wong had it fixed in about thirty minutes, though it did come with a requisite bitching from the two of them). He’d been told to seek Tony Stark, and seek he had. 

He’d seen him before, of course. On television, when he saved New York. But Stephen had never expected him to be even more handsome up close.

His little closeted gay heart trying to beat its way out of his chest, he’d followed Tony to Titan, he’d fought with Tony on Titan, and then he'd lost - spectacularly - with Tony on Titan. He’d placed the fate of the entire multiverse on the shoulders of one man, because he'd seen nearly fifteen million futures, and in each and every one of them, Tony Stark was a force of nature. He was a brave man, and strong, and loving, and by the time he cracked the code and brought everyone back from their temporary vacation in the Soul stone (totally boring - no one to talk to but the Spiderling, and that got old rather fast), Stephen was head over heels in love.

So was Tony, it seemed, if the open-mouthed tongue kiss he’d received upon his return to Earth was any indication. Dating turned to engagement turned to marriage in record time - they were old souls, bound by their shared experiences of grief, and loss, and struggle. They didn’t have time to dance around one another like a pair of lovestruck fools. Theirs was a love for the ages. Or so Tony said. Sometimes. After particularly good sex.

All of that being said - these days, it was odd for Stephen Strange to wake up alone. His husband was usually in bed beside him, or their two year old son Elliot had snuck up into bed with them at some point during the night. 

This morning, however, Stephen opened his eyes to an empty, cold bed, and the sound of giggles and cookware clanging coming from down the hall. He smiled to himself, running a trembling hand over his face as he sat up. What were they up to now?

“ - no, Dadda, no beggies!”

“It’s veggies, bud, with a V. And Papa likes veggies, he told me so himself.”

Stephen’s smile could only grow, and his chest went warm and syrupy with the affection thrumming pleasantly in his veins. Gods above, what had he done to deserve this? He pushed himself out of bed, moving as quietly as he could down the hallway. As he went, he ran his hand along the wall, carefully moving shaking fingers around framed photos and drawings that he and Tony had hung together. 

They'd bought this place just before they'd brought Elliot into their lives. A nicely-sized little suburban house, far away from the city and the compound. They came here occasionally, to unwind with their son. They were on a summer holiday, of sorts. They kept an eye on the happenings at home, but they focused mostly on one another.

Another pot or pan clattered to the bottom of the sink.

“Oh, shit - I, er - don't repeat that.”

“Shit!”

“No, no, no, stop - that's a bad word, Eli, pal, don’t say it for Daddy, okay?”

“Okay, Dadda. No shit.”

“Good boy.”

Stephen rolled his eyes as he rounded the last step into the kitchen, leaning against the doorway and folding his arms over his chest. He stood there and watched father and son scramble to get something semi-edible onto one of the waiting plates nearby - they'd managed toast, it seemed, and a glass of orange juice rested on the counter, sweating condensation. They'd been at this for a while, then.

Stephen decided to announce his presence. He cleared his throat, fighting a smile as Tony and Elliot froze, caught red handed.

“Tony, what do you think you're doing?”

Tony turned to face his husband, a sheepish smile on his face as he edged over in front of whatever was currently smoldering in the base of the kitchen sink. “Hey, Steph! Sleep well? You get - you get enough sleep?”

“Papa,” came Elliot's voice, his little head sticking out from behind Tony's legs.

“Yes, my treasure?” Stephen asked.

“Dadda say no shit.”

Stephen chuckled low in his chest, squatting down and opening his arms. “He did, did he?” He clarified, hoisting his son up into the air with a groan as the toddler ran to him on chubby legs. “He’s right. You shouldn't say that word.”

“Okay, Papa.”

Stephen pressed a loud smack of a kiss to Elliot's cheek, earning that crystal clear laughter that he’d grown so fond of. “Thank you, my heart. Now, back to the question at hand.”

Tony cleared his throat, shrugging and looking over the mess that breakfast had turned into. "Well, it's, yknow. Your birthday tomorrow. So, Eli and I figured we’d have a - practice run. For breakfast in bed.”

Elliot nodded, nearly head butting him in his enthusiasm. “Yeah, Papa! Birfday beck-fist.”

“Oh, I see,” Stephen hummed, pushing Elliot’s hair out of his face. “Birthday breakfast.”

Tony smiled, warm and loving. “Yeah, hon. But it - clearly didn’t go to plan.”

“Clearly,” Stephen laughed, setting Elliot down. “Here, get Papa the big bowl. We’ll make pancakes, hm?”

Elliot gasped, racing over to the other cabinet to hunt down the big bowl for his Papa.

Their toddler momentarily distracted, Stephen stepped across the kitchen floor, pinning his husband back against the counter top and planting a warm kiss to his lips. “Breakfast in bed for your husband’s birthday? Cliche, Mr. Stark. Very cliche.”

“Ah, but my husband is a romantic. A romantic to end all romantics,” Tony answered, pinching Stephen's ass. “He’s gonna love it.” 

“That he will,” Stephen agreed, kissing Tony tenderly.

“Ewww! Dadda, Papa!”

Tony broke away first, his arms wrapped tightly around his husband's waist. “We’re just kissin’, Eli, pal,” he teased. “That's all.”

“Gross! No kissy!” The little boy held out the bowl, wriggling slightly. “Panacakes! Panacakes, Papa!”

Stephen grinned, releasing his husband so that he could fix the mess he'd made, chasing his little boy down for the bowl in his pudgy little fists.

He used to wake up alone almost every morning. Shower, eat breakfast (maybe), dress for the day, show up for surgery. Then he'd come home, eat dinner or go out, shower, shave, and go to sleep in his massive bed, alone. 

Now, he had a family. A husband and son he loved more than anything else in the entire world. Sometimes, he still woke up alone.

But his family was never far away.


End file.
